AT eleven o’clock the next morning, Sir Arthur Babraham, looking worried and distrait, was pretending to read the “Times.” If ever a man could be said to have “been born with a silver spoon in his mouth” it was this soft-voiced, easy-mannered, kindly gentleman. The rubs of a hard world had hardly touched his unflawed surfaces. He sat on committees, it was true, and played Providence at third or fourth hand to less happily situated mortals; yet scarcely, if at all, had he been brought face to face with the stark realities of life.
It is never too late, however, for some new thing to occur. The previous evening an experience had happened to this worthy man; and he could not rid his mind of the fact that it was disconcerting. On a table at his elbow was a picture without a frame, and more than once his eyes strayed from the newspaper to this object, which at a first glance was so insignificant, and yet as if cursed with an “obi” it had the power to dominate him completely.
In the midst of this preoccupation, Laura Babraham entered the room. She had returned late from the dance, and this was her first appearance that morning. Hardly had she saluted her father when her eye also fell on the picture, and a look of deep anxiety came into her eyes.
“Have you heard anything from the hospital?” she asked eagerly.
“I rang them up half an hour ago,” said Sir Arthur. “The girl is very ill indeed. I gather from the tone of the person with whom I talked that the case is pretty serious.”
“Yes,” said Laura Babraham, in a low voice. “One felt sure of that. Never again do I want to see a human creature in the state that poor thing was in last night. I’ve been haunted by her ever since.”
“Pretty bad, I must say.” Sir Arthur plucked sharply at his moustache. “According to the Hospital, she’s been knocked about and generally ill-used. There are marks on her throat, and they want my opinion as to whether they should communicate with the police.”
“What do you advise, papa?” said Laura, with a growing concern.
“One doesn’t know what to advise.” Sir Arthur’s moustache continued to receive harsh treatment. “We are faced with rather a problem, it seems to me.”
“You mean that it will be a matter for the police if she doesn’t get better?”
“Yes, certainly that. And it may be a matter for the police if she does get better.”
Laura Babraham agreed; yet even then she did not see the problem in its full complexity. Sir Arthur, taking the first step towards her enlightenment, pointed to the Van Roon: “My dear, beyond any doubt that is a most precious thing. And, ignoring for the moment the state in which this young woman turned up last night, the question we have to ask ourselves is: What is she doing with it at all? And why was she ranging the streets alone, in the fog, at that hour?”
“From what one gathered,” said Laura, “the picture is hers, and her uncle, the old curio man in New Cross Street, with whom she lives, is determined to steal it.”
“Quite. That’s her story, as far as one can get at it. But I put it to you, isn’t it far more likely—prima facie at any rate—that the girl is trying to steal it from the old dealer?”
“I believe the poor thing is speaking the truth,” said Woman in the person of Miss Laura Babraham.
“You mean, my dear,” said her logical parent, with a sad little smile, “that you hope she is speaking the truth. With all my heart I hope so, too, even if it proves this old man—Gedge you say his name is—to be a terrible scoundrel. One of them certainly is not playing straight—but prima facie, as I say—if we call in the police, it is almost certain that it is this wretched girl who will find herself in prison.”
“There I don’t agree, papa,” said Woman staunchly. “The poor thing says that William the assistant gave her the picture; and in all the dealings I have had with William in the course of the past year, he has been honesty itself.”
Her father shook his head gently. “All very well, but Master William is the part of the story I like least. Is it probable, in the first place, that a young man who almost certainly has no money of his own, would be able to get possession of such a thing; and, again, assuming him to be clever enough to do so, is he going to be such a fool as to give it away to this girl? Let us look all the facts in the face. To my mind, the more one thinks of it the more inevitable the plain solution is.”
“I’m absolutely convinced that William, at any rate, is honest.”
Sir Arthur frowned and opened his cigar case. “And I for my part am convinced,” he said, with a sigh as he cut off the end of a Corona, “that our friend William is a cunning scoundrel, who has been deep enough to get this young woman to do the dirty work and run all the risks, because he must know as well as anybody that a great deal of money is at stake.”
Laura Babraham had a considerable respect for her father’s judgment, yet she knew the value of her own. She did not think it was possible to be so deceived; her dealings with William had left her with the highest regard for his straightforwardness; if he proved to be the despicable creature Sir Arthur’s fancy painted him, never again would she be able to hold an opinion about anyone. Yet her father’s analysis of the case, as it presented itself to her clear mind, left her on the horns of a dilemma. Either this young man was a fool, or he was a rogue. Beset by two evils, she chose without hesitation that which to the feminine mind appeared the less.
“He’s always struck one as rather simple in some ways and too much under the thumb of the old dealer, yet he’s really very clever.”
Sir Arthur drew mental energy from his Corona. “Not clever enough to keep honest, my dear.”
“Please don’t prejudge him. That wicked old man is at the back of all.”
“Well, that is just what we have now to find out.”
Laura assented; yet then arose the question as to the means by which the truth could be won. It was likely to resolve itself into an affair of William’s word against the word of his master. Whoever could tell the more plausible tale would be believed; and William’s friend saw from the outset that Circumstance had already weighted the scales heavily against him. On the face of it, the story as disclosed by the poor girl who was now in the Hospital, was frankly incredible.
Recollection of the pitiful scene of the previous night brought to Laura Babraham’s mind her own urgent duty in the matter. The girl had begged her not on any account to give up the picture. So long as sense and coherence remained the unlucky creature had declared it to be her own lawful property. Laura had solemnly promised to see justice done, and it behooved her now to be as good as her word.
“I suppose, papa, you have telephoned already to Mr. Gedge?”
“The Hospital has, I believe,” said Sir Arthur. “I particularly asked them to do so. The old fellow must be very anxious about the girl, and perhaps even more anxious about his Van Roon.”
“Please don’t say ‘his Van Roon’ before he’s proved the ownership.”
“That won’t be difficult, I fear.”
“We must make it as difficult for him as we can,” said the tenacious Laura.
Sir Arthur shook his head. As a man of the world, he had but scant hope that the mystery would be cleared up in the way Laura desired.